


The Transfer Window

by TheSmellOfStorms



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Featuring, I mean... this thing has about 14k words, M/M, Mutual Pining, Panick Attack, Sharing a Bed, Slow Build, a character drinks a little at some point, and by football I mean soccer, at least I guess, coach Waverly, football au, meddling Gaby, oblivious idiots, physiotherapist Gaby, player Illya, player Napoleon, smoking is mentionned but no smoking actually occurs, so alcohol trigger warning (but it's really not important in the story), so it counts... doesn't it, third person POV switching between Illya and Napoleon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 23:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15784662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSmellOfStorms/pseuds/TheSmellOfStorms
Summary: Illya was so incredibly tired. He had made a mistake, a huge mistake. He had lost his cool and had chosen possibly the worst moment to do so. In other words, he had royally messed up.Solo had managed to get a rise out of him again.[The enemies to lovers football AU that I am pretty sure no one asked for]





	The Transfer Window

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is my first Man from U.N.C.L.E fanfic, and it had to be a football AU, since I love football (A LOT ^^)  
> I hope you guys will like it :) don't worry if you don't know anything about football, I don't go into much detail about it, and if you are curious about something you can ask me, I'd be glad to answer ;).

Illya was so incredibly tired. He had made a mistake, a huge mistake. He had lost his cool and had chosen possibly the worst moment to do so. In other words, he had royally messed up. 

Solo had managed to get a rise out of him again. There was no valid reason for these recurring incidents, really, at least none that Illya’s coach could see. However, for Illya himself, there were many reasons, a sum of extremely annoying traits Solo exhibited on a daily basis: his air of superiority, the self-satisfied grin he sported more often than not, his obnoxious American accent, and numerous other insufferable character flaws. Illya managed to ignore them most of the time, which was nothing short of miraculous. But, on certain occasions, Solo’s attitude reached such extremities that it became intolerable to him. 

Sooner that day, for instance, while Illya had been running on the pitch, minding his own business, Solo had tripped him even though the ball had been nowhere near him, and he had not even received a yellow card for his foul play. He had the referee wrapped around his little finger, as everyone else it seemed, Illya excluded. The latter had stayed calm, at least calm enough not to beat Solo to a pulp, which he considered to be an extraordinary feat, but that filthy cheater had not stopped there. Of course not. 

When Illya’s team had been preparing for a corner kick, he had elbowed Illya hard in the ribs, making him lose focus of the game, and therefore preventing him from shooting a header. Headers were one of Illya’s strong suits, thanks to his size. It was no secret to anyone. Solo had not hesitated to play dirty to neutralize the danger Illya had represented. Unfortunately for the latter, fortunately for Solo, the referee had once again ignored it. Had he chosen to do so or had he genuinely not seen? Illya could not say, but it had not mattered at that point. He had been out of his mind with rage, a rage which had built up since Solo’s first foul, making his teeth grind and his fingers twitch. 

He had got up quickly, seeing red, and had pushed Solo quite hard… maybe a bit too hard. Well, it would teach him, anyway. For once, he had had a good reason to be on the grass, other than his tendency to dive at the slightest touch like the diva he truly was. Seeing him on the ground, his breath knocked out of him, had not made Illya regret his actions, as insensitive as it made him sound. However, seeing the referee pull the red card from his breast pocket and show it to him without an ounce of pity had certain put a damper on his mood, which had considerably brightened when he had taken Solo down a peg. 

After he had been carded, Illya had looked down at his boots and had not even thrown a glance in Solo’s direction, refusing to witness the smug look which had most probably been etched on his face at that moment. He had headed to the changing room as quickly as possible without looking back, knowing that trying to argue his case with the referee would be useless and could only get him in more trouble. This was how things went. 

He was now in the aforementioned changing room, showered and dressed, waiting for his team to filter in at the end of the match. That gave him more time than he needed to replay the catastrophe which had unfolded. He felt awful. He blamed Solo, naturally, but he blamed himself twice as much for losing his composure so easily where the man was concerned. He truly was the ban of Illya’s existence. 

The room was completely silent, but also in disarray, as it always was during matches. Before the arrival of the teams, the changing rooms were pristine: the kits were laid by the staff on the benches, the boots were lined up under them, and everything was arranged with care, perfectly symmetrical and clean. Then, the players came in and destroyed the carefully fabricated order. Once they left for the pitch, there were rumpled clothes thrown across the benches, sneakers and flip-flops laying haphazardly on the floor, upturned and mismatched, and opened bags, their content carelessly discarded wherever there was room. 

Illya had tidied his spot as soon as he had come back from his shower, but there was nothing he could do about the other players’ possessions, and the chaos was making him anxious in the otherwise empty room. No noise, no presence to distract him from the literal mess and, even worse, from the mess of his thoughts. It resonated loudly, telling him incessantly that he was a failure, an embarrassment to the team, unworthy of his position of captain. 

When the other players finally entered the changing room a few minutes later, wet with rain and reeking of mud and sweat, Illya instantly felt much better, even before he knew whether they had lost or won in spite of his major mistake. No one was talking to him or even looking in his direction, but his teammates offered him the distraction he desperately needed. Dazed, he heard the coach’s voice give the post-match speech, but he could not make out any particular word, his head full of the noise of cleated shoes against the tiled floor, of rustling clothes, of illicit conversations held in whispering voices while the manager was droning on and on. All that racket allowed Illya to silence his overbearing thoughts. 

Did the coach reprimand Illya for his red card? Had the team lost the game? Had something else major happened after he had been sent off? He could not have said, for the life of him. He sat perfectly still and silent during the whole speech, predicting a splitting headache would come his way very soon. After a few seconds, a few minutes, a few hours, hell if he knew, time had come to go home. Finally. Illya could have cried in relief, but he did no such thing. He simply got up and left without saying goodbye to anyone. The players had actually come to the stadium together in the team bus, as they always did when there was a home game, but Illya wanted to walk home by himself. He would get his car back from the training centre the next day. Informing the others was unnecessary. They knew he liked to isolate himself on nights like these, to mull things over, no matter how destructive it could be when it came to his self-esteem and sanity. 

He could not believe Solo had such an effect on him, as if he was anything more to Illya than an American show-off who probably called football soccer and who strutted in shorts one size too small as if the pitch was some sort of catwalk. 

Thankfully, it was not that big of a problem, since Solo’s unwanted presence in his life was only sporadic, inconveniencing him only a few times a year. They played against each other at least twice a season, rarely more than four, and it could mathematically not exceed nine times, if Manchester City had the misfortune to play against United not only in the Premiere League, which was sadly compulsory, but also in the group stage of the Champions League (which meant two games, home and away), in the FA Cup and the League Cup (both of which could also mean two games depending on which stage the competition was at), and in the Community Shield, which opposed the winner of the Premiere League to the winner of the FA Cup at the beginning of each season. Thankfully, the odds to see these seven additional matches against Manchester United happen in the same season were extremely slim. May that nightmare never come to life for Illya. He was not sure he could survive it. 

*  
The season was over, and thus began the transfer window. Napoleon had just spent his last season at Manchester United and he knew it. At thirty years old, he was not getting any younger, especially for a striker, and the Premiere League was a particularly demanding championship: there was no winter break like in other European Leagues, forcing the teams to play around Christmas and New Year’s, on boxing day, in the cold, the rain and the bitter wind, sometimes even in the snow. 

Being a born and raised Californian, Napoleon was not particularly fond of English weather, especially Northern English one. It was a true calamity. 

He had always planned to play a season or two in good old Italy, or maybe in the South of France, before retiring, and he felt the time had come. He was dreaming of warm weather, good food, and fewer matches. Also, he already spoke French, thanks to his mother, and Italian, because he had been a Serie A player at the beginning of his career. A move to an Italian team would offer no challenge and that was precisely what appealed to him. He was tired of challenges somehow. He just wanted to be left alone, he had nothing more to prove. 

His agent and club knew of his wishes, no one was opposed to it, so he was just waiting for offers to come his way. And, not to sound conceited, but he had no doubt they would. He had proved himself to be a good, reliable forward: his goal droughts never lasted long, he was always up to par during the most important matches, and he was quite popular with the fans. There was no reason for him to fear not being wanted. 

In the meanwhile, since there was nothing he could do besides waiting for a call from his agent, Napoleon enjoyed his summer in California, staying far away from transfer rumours, which were often unfounded and never failed to give him anxiety. He lay on a lounge chair by the swimming pool of his beach house, soaking in the sun, going for a swim once in a while to cool off his heated body, and if he daydreamed about the paved roads and the piazzas of Rome, it was nobody’s business but his own. 

*  
When his agent had called him to talk about an offer from A.S. Roma, Illya had not had much to say about it. He liked the harshness of the Premiere League, the tough games and the rough tackles, but apart from that he would not miss it much. He did not have any real friends in the team, which was almost entirely his fault: he was secretive and quiet, people had not bothered to dig deeper, which he had been thankful for. End of the story. He was not opposed to a change of scenery. 

The club did not care much about letting him go. He knew he was only captain because he had played for City the longest out of all the players and because he was known to be a responsible person. He was not an emblematic player of the team. Youngsters were already waiting on the bench for his spot in the starting eleven, and he was sure they would do a very good job too. Even if that weren’t the case, City could always buy an extremely expensive and popular player as replacement for Illya. They were filthy rich, after all. 

It would be good for Illya to feel useful: A.S. Roma had apparently been in desperate need of a centre-back, and Illya’s size and built had convinced them he was the ideal addition to their team, which was lacking in that area. His stats and good reputation had most certainly helped too. He had not been nicknamed “the Wall” by the press for nothing. At least he thought it referred to his defending skills and size rather than to his nationality, which would have been rather distasteful. Either way, he did not care much: he had been called worse things in his life. 

At the end of the summer holidays, he packed the few personal items he owned and left his huge and empty house with nothing more than a tired sigh. The older he got, the more vain it all seemed, and the only place that made him feel truly at peace these days was the football pitch, as if the game was far more of a home to him than the big impersonal places he had lived in after he had moved out of the cramped whole-in-the-wall that was his childhood home. 

He boarded the plane for Rome, leaving England behind. He had lived there for years, but left no friend or significant other, only teammates and nameless fans, unknown faces in the crowds, at the stadiums. He left fierce rivals too, especially the United players, and Solo in particular. His last thought before the plane took off went to him, as if the insufferable imbecile was what had made the more lasting impression on Illya in this entire country, during this entire era of his existence. An American he had never even had a lasting conversation with in the years during which they had repeatedly met each other. It was a rather disheartening thought… that he had been nothing more than a player in a team, a pawn in a chess game. He had no deep connection to the place he was leaving, it was meaningless to him. 

*  
Napoleon was mildly excited to go the new players’ presentation. Since he had pretty much cut himself from the football world’s this summer, he had no idea who his new team’s other recruits were. Alexander Vinciguerra could be one of them, for all he knew. He hoped not, though. He could not stand the bastard. 

His wildest dreams could not have come close to what he actually found out at that little presentation ceremony. Illya fucking Kuryakin… He would have never imagined that City would let their captain go so easily. Nevertheless, he was ecstatic that they had and, needless to say, Illya, upon seeing Napoleon, clearly didn’t feel the same way. This upcoming season had suddenly taken a very interesting turn. 

*  
When he had seen Solo at the presentation, Illya had simultaneously wanted to scream in frustration, to cry, and to punch him in the face. Thankfully, he had managed to hold back on these impulses, but as a result his fingers had gone back to twitching dangerously. It was never a good sign. 

Plus, they were the only new signings of the club being presented that day, which was absolutely not helping Illya to forget about the dumbass. 

“Well, Solo, Kuryakin, welcome to A.S. Roma. We’re really happy to have you both. Arch nemeses don’t become teammates every day, after all, and I am sure you will be fast friends”. 

Illya did not know if the club president was referring to the rivalry between City and United, or if his hatred for Solo had been less subtle than he had thought it was. Logically, it should be the former, else the man probably wouldn’t have made them teammates, and he would at least know they would not be fast friends. No way in hell. 

Illya came home as soon as the presentation was over. He was fed up and dead on his feet. He had not had time to go to his new house after his plane had landed, lest he miss the beginning of the presentation, which would not have been the best first impression. 

The house was in a rich neighbourhood in the Suburbs, as the previous one had been, albeit in a different city (Illya was not sure he would ever get entirely used to this kind of places). It was a huge cream coloured villa with a spacious front yard. The blinds, the front door and the garage were painted a deep blue. There was a driveway, made of large grey stones of various sizes and shapes, as well as a few front steps of the same material to access the door. 

Before Illya finally came forward and went up the aforementioned stairs so he could enter the house, he heard a car engine and turned in the direction of the noise. It was a reflex. The neighbourhood had been so quiet until then that he had to find out who dared disturb the silence. The guilty car had just parked in the driveway of the villa right next to his, and Illya’s eyes were fixated on it. 

An impending feeling of dread had taken residence in his heart. He knew that car. He had seen it a few minutes ago, at the end of the players’ presentation. It was Solo’s, and Illya was screwed. 

Oleg had only ever cared about the money Illya’s skills and reputation could bring him, this was no news to the player, but he still felt betrayed that his agent had managed to find him a house right next to his biggest rival’s. It was partially Illya’s fault too though, he had to admit that. He could have taken care of the house hunting on his own. He should have, even… 

For a moment, he wished Solo had not noticed him, so he could ignore him and pretend he did not live a few meters away. No such luck. How could he have missed nearly two meters of angry Russian staring at his car as he parked it? 

“Hey Kuryakin! How nice to see you here! Do come in for a drink when you feel like it, would you? You’ll see, I’m a real friendly neighbour, always there to lend a hand” He yelled from across the fence, putting emphasis on the “always”. 

Illya’s feeling of dread had just doubled in intensity. The smile on Solo’s face was unnaturally wide, showing his teeth. Illya’s misery was certainly the reason of his glee. If he had had the energy for it, Illya would have moved out even before he had really settled in, but he was exhausted. He would think about it later, for now he wanted to sleep more than anything. He had no idea what he would find inside the house, but whatever state the bed was in, he would gladly use it. He was even willing to sleep on the floor is there was neither bed nor couch. 

He did not bother answering to Solo’s sarcastic invitation of sorts and just went into the house as quickly as he could without looking like he was running away, which he was, to be honest. 

*  
On the first few weeks following his arrival in Rome, Napoleon had a lot of fun. The team was back in training, but the matches had not started yet, so he had a lot of free time. He visited museums, walked in the narrow cobblestone streets, perfected the sun tan he had acquired in the States and, last but not least, picked on Illya. Such childish behaviour on his part was quite unbecoming, but he could not help himself. There was something inherently satisfying in getting Illya riled up, and he was so easy to annoy. 

Unfortunately, the harmless (or so he thought) fun could not last. First of all, they were now teammates and the season would start very soon, so they’d better start getting along or Waverly would make them… Solo was not sure what that threat from their coach exactly entailed, but he preferred not to find out. Secondly, something had happened at the end of training that day, something that had given Napoleon a guilty conscience. 

In the changing room, when Illya was fastening his old rickety watch on his wrist, Napoleon had had the disastrous idea of asking him why he insisted on wearing that monstrosity despite his enormous pay check. He was waiting for the murderous glare Illya generally graced him with when he was being disobliging, but he got a flash of hurt in clear blue eyes instead. Illya had not replied to Napoleon’s jibe and had left the room without so much as a backward glance. Napoleon had undoubtedly messed up. 

Therefore, as soon as he was back home, he started cooking, as a way to cope, and also to try and make amends. It allowed him to focus on something other than the painful way his heart had constricted in his chest at Illya’s earlier reaction. 

He then went to Illya’s and knocked on his door, aware of the risks he was taking, i.e. having Illya slam the said door in his face, if he was lucky, or having Illya punch him, if he was not. Still, he would not be deterred. He would climb out of the grave he had dug himself, no matter the cost. 

Illya did indeed try to slam the door in his face, but Napoleon would not have it and put his foot in the doorframe at the last moment. It could only make Illya angrier, but Napoleon needed him to hear him out. 

“Look Kuryakin… I’m sorry… about what I said earlier”. It was not very elaborate, as far as apologies went, but Napoleon did not know what had set Illya off, and it didn’t seem like the right time to ask about it, all things considered.

He cleared his throat, uncharacteristically embarrassed. “I made lasagna… as a peace offering of sorts. It isn’t poisoned, I swear!” What had gotten over him? This was a train wreck! And Illya was still not saying anything. Why wasn’t he saying anything? 

“So… I hope you like it”, he added before finally shutting up and extending the lasagna to Illya, hoping he would quickly recover from his apparent shock and take it so Napoleon could go back home, crawl in a corner and possibly die of awkwardness. 

Fortunately, he did shake off his temporary paralysis and got hold of the dish. Thank God for small mercies. He still looked confused, but not murderous, which had to count for something. Napoleon did not stay for further examination and scurried off Illya’s front yard, trying not to think about how cute Illya was when he was confused. However, he realised his teammate had not said a word to him. Come to think of it, he did not say much to him at all in general. Surely, he was not talkative, but it seemed extreme. It was all Napoleon’s fault. He had really gone about it the wrong way, hadn’t he? 

*  
Illya really didn’t understand Napoleon Solo, and he had even come to doubt it was possible to. The man was a puzzle. In the morning, he had made an unnecessary negative comment, as he often did, and suddenly he was on his doorstep, offering him homemade lasagna and somehow apologising… why would he do such a thing? And why now? Had he suddenly grown a conscience? 

On the following day, Illya had an appointment with the club’s physiotherapist, Gabriela Teller, whom he had first met in Germany years ago, at the beginning of his career as a professional football player. She always managed to make him talk, even when he least wanted to, so he ended up talking about Solo without even meaning to while Gaby was massaging his thigh. The situation was quite awkward, but Illya had got used to the proximity a bit. He had known her for a long time, after all, even if they had sadly gone years without seeing each other. 

“He made a mean comment about my father’s watch yesterday. It did not surprise me. But he brought homemade lasagna in the evening. THAT was surprising.” 

He was expecting Gaby to be as nonplussed as he had been by the whole ordeal, but her eyes did not widen, her hands on his leg did not falter, she did not even frown or look up from what she was doing. 

“Was it any good? The lasagna?” 

He grumbled an affirmative response. They were the best he had ever eaten, in fact, but he would not be caught dead admitting that. 

“Good… He finally pulled his head out of his ass. That dumb fuck.” 

Illya nearly chocked on air. He would probably never get used to hearing Gaby, or anyone else for that matter, curse so crudely. He did not curse much himself. 

“Next time, invite him to eat with you. Who knows, you might end up being friends, after all”, she said with a playful smile. 

“That is not likely to happen, and there will be no next time. I suggest you do not hold your breath”, he replied, trying to sound stern, but probably sounding pouty. 

But there was, in fact, a next time. Several other times, even. Solo was decidedly full of surprises. He kept on bringing Illya annoyingly delectable food, and Illya started to warm up to him against his better judgement, until the fatidic day he finally invited Solo to eat dinner with him. He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth but he could not find a valid reason to backtrack and withdraw the half-hearted invitation he had just extended. He was therefore stuck with Solo for the evening. 

They talked about football and how A.S. Roma’s season was going so far. It was known territory, it was safe. They were not ready for personal topics, at least Illya was not, and he might never be. 

Against all odds, their impromptu dinner went well. There was no broken glass, no fight, no insult, not even a taunt disguised as a compliment (which was one of Solo’s specialities). Come to think of it, Solo had been surprisingly tame in the last few weeks, replacing his attacks by homemade dishes. Illya could not complain. 

“I can’t believe I am going to say this but… your company’s not as awful as I thought it would be.” Solo’s tone had lost its usual biting quality. He was just trying to be funny.

Illya had to refrain from rolling his eyes. 

“Right. See you tomorrow, Solo.” 

“Yes, goodnight Illya.”

Solo turned around and left. He had never called Illya by his first name before. It had sounded so soft… fond, even. Illya shook his head. His imagination must have been playing tricks on him, it made no sense. 

He went to bed soon after Solo had left, but he could not sleep. He kept tossing and turning, thinking about stupid Solo and his stupid smile, for some unfathomable reason. They had an important match tomorrow, for God’s sake. Illya needed his rest. 

He had to give up, at some point, and admit defeat. He got up and went to the kitchen to make some tea. His mother used to do that for him when he had trouble sleeping as a child. He also lit the candles Gaby had bought him the other day, in a desperate attempt to relax, even though he highly doubted it would be effective. 

After pouring the boiling water in the tea cup, he opened the nearest window. Summer was coming to an end, but the air was still warm, warmer than it had ever been during his time in Manchester. He breathed in and was suddenly surrounded by the smell of the roses which grew right next to his opened window. He had to admit it was nice… confusing neighbours left aside. 

*  
Unbeknownst to Illya, Napoleon was having a minor crises of his own, right next door. He was thinking about the evening they had just spent together, which brought him to think about Illya in general, about how beautiful he was, about his grace – which a man his size and bulk should not have possessed –, about his blue eyes and long eyelashes, about his hair – which reminded Napoleon of dark honey and everything warm–, about his hands, huge but somehow gentle. Despite his built and how tough he was on the pitch, Illya radiated some sort of softness that would never cease to amaze Napoleon. 

Long story short, he could not ignore his feelings any longer. He had to acknowledge the facts: he had the biggest crush on Illya Kuryakin, and that was unacceptable, “that” being the crush itself as well as the outrageously long time it had taken him to finally understand why he felt the need to push Illya around like a kindergarten pupil. He had been pulling on Illya’s metaphorical pigtails since the beginning, and it was ridiculous. 

And now, he couldn’t sleep because he was overthinking all of this… all of these feelings, which was possibly the most ridiculous part. He had to get a grip! He had promised himself he would not pursue anything with a fellow football player. It had not ended well the first time… and that was an understatement. At least, he had not been outed, which had been a small solace. Nonetheless, it had been a close call, and he would not make the same mistake again. 

Illya could never know about the feelings he harboured for him. He hated Napoleon, anyway, so it was for the best. 

After that wise but depressing resolution had been made, Napoleon got out of bed and went in search of a drink, preferably something strong. He had a match tomorrow, an important one, but he could care less about that and the strict diet he was supposed to follow. 

Not even bothering to switch the lights on, he went for the scotch in his drink cabinet. He didn’t feel like drinking vodka, for obvious reasons. He leaned against his kitchen counter and took a swig directly from the bottle, which, granted, seemed quite pitiful. He then noticed a weak glow emanating from the windows of Illya’s kitchen, indicating Napoleon wasn’t the only one awake. 

He imagined Illya sitting at his kitchen table, as he had earlier, only this time in sleeping attire (which had not to include a shirt, for the sake of Napoleon’s fantasy), his face only illuminated by the flickering candlelight. Solo took another swig because of the image he had conjured of his own volition. He had to stop the masochist streak, to stop thinking about Illya, but it was easier said than done. 

The next day, as he exited his house, Napoleon saw Illya taking an old rusted bike out of his garage. Not only did it look so ancient Napoleon had a hard time believing it still functioned, it was also far too small for Illya. 

“What the hell are you doing?” 

“I… er… I am having car problems… I found this in the garage. The previous owner probably left it.” Illya explained, almost sheepishly. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, I can give you a ride.” 

Illya passed a hand through his hair, making it stand in (adorable) spikes. 

“Well, if it is not too much trouble.” 

“Of course not!” 

Illya cleared his throat. “Thanks”. 

“That’s no trouble at all.” 

And here they were, going to the team’s meeting point together, like true BFFs. It did nothing to help Napoleon with his stupid attraction, but he could not have left Illya ride the horrendous bike he had dug up form a dark corner of his garage to the training centre. He would have probably not arrived on time, or even whole, and then Waverly would have had his head for his unneighbourly attitude, and then Illya’s, if it was still attached to his shoulders when he finally made it to the meeting point.

*

At first, they stayed silent, which was quite awkward and led to Illya fidgeting with his hands. He was looking for something to say, but could not come up with anything. Then, Napoleon started talking, and for once Illya was glad he did. 

“You drive an electric car, right?”

“I do.” Illya replied, noticing too late that his tone was a bit defensive. He was anticipating a rant about the unreliability of electric cars, and God help him if Napoleon did go down that road (no pun intended). 

“What’s wrong with it?” 

Illya sighed.

“Trouble with the battery…” He was being purposefully vague, because the trouble with the battery was in fact that Illya had forgotten to recharge it, he was just too embarrassed to own up to it. He had really not been in his right mind since Solo and he had had dinner together the day before. 

“I see…”

There was a pause, and Illya felt the need to end it, lest the conversation die completely and the awkward silence set again. 

“So… how do you think today’s match will go?” 

They were playing Lazio, which was A.S. Roma’s bitter rival. 

“I think we’ll win, of course. We have to, anyway.” Solo said. 

Illya was not as determined as Solo was. He still was, determined to win that is, but not more so than usual. He had never been particularly immersed in his various teams’ football rivalries. His first pro team in Germany had not really had any big rivalry going on. Back when he was in Manchester City, he had felt more hostility towards Solo in particular than towards Manchester United. And he had not been a part of A.S. Roma for long enough to say if he would truly come to consider Lazio as the enemy. He doubted he would get into it though, when he had never done so before. It probably would not be any different.

“I’d hate to lose against the likes of Vinciguerra. The smug bastard.” 

Illya did not think Napoleon was entitled to calling other people “smug bastards”, but he kept that thought to himself. 

“You know him personally?” he asked instead. 

“Unfortunately, yeah. We played for the same team for a while. It sure didn’t leave me pleasant memories.” 

Illya had not known about that. He barely kept track of who played where, as transfer windows could become rather daunting. 

He surprisingly found himself wanting to know why Solo disliked Vinciguerra. Was it just baseless animosity or did he have specific reasons? 

He did not ask about it, though. He could not show he was remotely interested in Solo’s private life. They were veering into uncharted territories and Illya did not like it. He was suspicious of the motives hiding behind Solo’s sudden kindness towards him. He was certainly being paranoid, but he would rather be safe than sorry. 

Once they arrived at the meeting point, right on time, they got on the bus together and ended up sitting side by side. 

Illya tried to stick to his side, leaning against the window, but, because of their respective sizes, he could not avoid having his left leg touch Solo’s right one. He tried to move, but only managed to make their legs rub against one another even more. He stopped moving all together, after that. However, he soon noticed that Solo’s leg was jittering, and he could feel the shaky movement through the point of contact between his and Solo’s bodies. It was extremely distracting. After a while, it was the only thing Illya could focus on. Without thinking it through, he put his hand over Solo’s knee to still his leg. 

“Nerves?” 

Solo didn’t answer immediately. 

“I guess you could say that.” 

“Hey guys!”

It was Gaby. She had just got on the bus and was sitting down right in front of Illya. He was glad she was there, even more so than usual. 

“So, are you ready to beat the fuck out of Lazio?”

“You can bet your ass we are.” Solo answered, while Illya was internally lamenting their foul language. 

And, the trouble was that Solo might have been a bit too ready to “beat the fuck out of” their opponents of the day, and of one opponent in particular. 

Illya was disconcerted, at first. Solo, who was usually the one doing the aggravating while remaining perfectly calm and composed himself, was all riled-up because of Vinciguerra’s antics. The role reversal was quite off-putting. 

By some miracle, Solo and Vinciguerra’s constant bickering had yet to get sanctioned when the match reached the seventy-five-minute mark. But Illya feared it would not last until the final whistle, and if he had to bet on one of these idiots completely losing control, he would bet on his idiot… and by “his” he meant the one from his team, obviously. 

The last few minutes of the game proved Illya right. All the players of A.S. Roma were on their own side of the pitch, busy defending, when Vinciguerra went down in the penalty area. And, of course, Solo was the one taking care of him defence-wise at that moment. Illya wished Solo had stayed on the other side of the pitch, waiting for the ball to come his way, as some forwards used to. Did he possess no sense of self-preservation? 

Illya, who was not far from the incident, came nearer on autopilot. He was following his instinct, and he was right to. The referee gave a penalty kick to Lazio, which resulted in Vinciguerra getting up from the ground, where he had been holding his foot, pretending to be in pain, a few seconds before. He then whispered something to Solo, and Illya arrived right on time to prevent the latter from pouncing on the former. He had never seen Solo lose his cool that way: his teeth were gritted, his fists were clenched and his usually perfectly coiffed hair was in disarray, making him look wild. 

Illya held Solo back by the shoulders and pulled him as far as he could from the Lazio player. 

He was fighting him off, though, so Illya had to encircle his chest to get a stronger hold on him. He could feel the man’s heartbeat rocketing. He needed to get a grip immediately, else he would get a red card on top of the penalty kick. Granted, the match was almost over, but a red meant Solo would miss their next match too, and the team really did not need that. 

“Solo, calm down, he is not worth it.” 

“But he dived! That fucker dived! I did not touch him!” 

“I know, I know” he did not, in fact, as he had not had the right angle to see the action clearly from where he had been standing. He just wanted Solo to know he was on his side. “But you know the referee will not change his mind. You have to calm down, otherwise you will get a red, and that would surely make Vinciguerra very happy.” 

Solo finally stopped trying to escape him, and Illya let out a relieved sigh. 

“You’re right… I’m sorry.” 

“It is okay.” 

Vinciguerra asked Lazio’s designated free kicks shooter to shoot the penalty kick in his stead, which the player agreed too. And he scored, unsurprisingly. The match ended in a draw barely a minute later. 

Solo was still fuming, albeit silently so. The fact that Vinciguerra had been the scorer only added fuel to the fire, and Illya was worried his teammate would go berserk again. 

And he did, in the tunnel, when both teams were going back to their respective changing rooms. To his defence, Vinciguerra did purposefully shove him when he walked past. His anger was definitely not unwarranted. 

Solo went after Vinciguerra and pulled on his arm to hold him back from running off to his changing room. 

“Listen to me, you stupid fucker, you’d better watch out! You were lucky today, but your luck might run out soon.” 

The barely veiled threat made Illya move forward. He once again managed to prevent a fight. 

Vinciguerra, who had shaken off Solo’s grip on his wrist, shoved him without any real strength. Seeing Solo was preparing to retaliate more forcefully, Illya intervened, pinning him to the nearest wall and effectively putting himself between him and Vinciguerra in the process. 

“Napoleon, let it go.” He had both his hands on Solo’s chest, hoping it would ground him as well as keep him from beating Vinciguerra to a pulp. 

Illya turned briefly towards the other man. 

“You, go away.” 

 

*

Napoleon was extremely satisfied to see Vinciguerra scurry off pitifully at Illya’s order. He also couldn’t help but be satisfied to have Illya’s hands on him, even if the circumstances were far from ideal. 

When Illya let go of him, Napoleon slumped, suddenly feeling bone-tired. He passed a hand in his already messy hair and thanked Illya, not without a flicker of shame. He wasn’t ashamed very often, but he had really gone too far tonight, especially for someone who prided themselves on being composed and calculating. 

Napoleon didn’t talk much to anyone after the match, up until he was finally alone with Illya in his car, as they were making their way back home. 

“What was that about? I did not think you hated him that much.” 

As little as Napoleon wanted to talk about it, he knew he owed Illya an explanation after he had saved his ass twice in the same evening. Napoleon could not give him the whole story, but he had to give him a piece of it. 

“We had a huge fight before I left Juventus for Manchester United… we have been hating each other’s guts ever since… I’m sorry you were dragged into it.” 

Illya shrugged. “I dragged myself into it, when it comes down to it. You did not personally ask me to hold you back from the fight.” 

“Well, I’m sorry anyway… you were great, so thanks again.” 

“Told you… it is okay, Solo.” Illya mumbled. 

He didn’t know how to accept Napoleon’s gratitude. How precious. 

“You know, you called me Napoleon earlier, in the tunnel.” 

“I did not.” 

“Did too.” Napoleon refused to let it go. He was grateful, but not to the point of ceasing to tease Illya. 

“I do not remember it.” 

“Well, I do… and I thought it was nice.” 

Napoleon threw a glance in Illya’s direction and saw him bite his lower lip. How he longed to bite that lower lip too… He sighed. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Oh… er… sure. Just tired.” Napoleon stammered. He had not expected Illya to pick up on his sudden wistfulness and he had expected him to question it even less. 

“Right…” 

Once the car was parked in Napoleon’s driveway, before Illya got out, he made a surprising proposition:

“I could give you a ride to the training centre tomorrow if you wanted… I’ve been thinking… about how carpooling is good for the environment… you know.” 

Napoleon had to make an effort to answer Illya’s question instead of gaping like a fish out of water. 

“Sure, I’d be delighted.” 

“Great. See you tomorrow then, Napoleon.” He rushed out, before exiting the car and disappearing. 

Napoleon didn’t know if he had used his first name again on purpose of if it had just slipped out. Either way, he was glad. 

*  
Illya was so weak. His resolve to keep his distance from Napoleon had not even lasted through the day. He still had no idea why Napoleon had started being nice to him. It had come out of nowhere, but it was pleasant, and Illya wanted to allow himself to appreciate nice things, for once. 

Plus, strangely enough, Napoleon’s attitude during the match had made him more sympathetic to Illya. For the first time, Illya had seen him angry, no perfect smile had been plastered on his face: he had actually showed human emotions. They were negative ones, but that was not a problem to Illya. He would take angry Napoleon over the mask-wearing one anytime. 

So, yes, he had proposed to give him a ride. It might have been a mistake, but at least it was not a terrible one. Carpooling was not a best friends’ pact or a wedding proposal, after all. It was not that big of a deal. 

At least that was what he thought before he woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and hard from the dream he had just had. It took him a few seconds to fully wake up and realise where he was and what had happened. Once he had, he froze. 

No. No, no, no. It could not be. No way. He could not be attracted to Napoleon Solo. The dream meant nothing… dreams did not always mean something, right? Right. 

He nearly fell from his bed in his hurry to get out of it. He turned the lights on and started pacing, hoping he would end up either falling from exhaustion or coming up with a brilliant idea. It was not a great strategy, he was aware of that, but he had no back up plan. 

He ended up going back to bed about an hour later. He had not slept much the previous night, and that, coupled with the match against Lazio, meant that Illya was exhausted. He would never survive training in the afternoon if he did not rest a bit more. 

He woke up a few more times in the night, assaulted by flashes from his dream: the illusory feeling of Solo’s skin on his, the sounds of his pleasure, the taste of lips. However, despite his dread-laced arousal, Illya still managed to get a few hours of sleep. But since his sleep had been the fitful kind, he was still tired. He was positive he could survive the day, though. 

Survive, he did. But he did not fare much better than that. He was so unfocused that he let his lunch burn on the stove, only noticing when the acrid smell of the smoke had reached him through the haze he was in. 

Then, he fell asleep on his couch while reading a mystery novel (and it was not even a bad one!). He was only awaken by the ringing of his doorbell. Illya got up hastily and felt lightheaded for a few seconds, which forced him to pause and lean on the back of the couch he had just left. 

His doorbell rang again, threatening to make his head explode. The training session awaiting him would definitely not be the easiest he would go through in his career. 

“Hello… I have to go get my bag, I will be back in a second”, he informed Solo after he had finally opened the door. 

He rushed to get his things, hoping he was not forgetting anything important. He had no time to think about it any further. 

He slammed his front door on the way out and joined Solo to his car. At least, he had remembered to recharge it when he had come home from the match. Finally, one thing was going right on this God forsaken day. 

“Illya, are you alright?” 

“Yes… why would I not be?” There he was, being defensive again. He could not help it. Also, having a wet dream about the man had certainly not helped Illya be more comfortable around him. 

“You sure?” 

Illya nodded and got in the car, ending the conversation. If he had been honest with himself, he would have admitted he was not fit to drive at the moment, but he was in denial. 

He did not fall asleep at the wheel, but it might have been solely because the distance separating his house from the training centre was short. Either way, they had arrived in one piece, so mission accomplished. Now another mission was awaiting him: holding on until the end of the training session. 

As predicted, it did not go seamlessly. When he let the player he was supposed to stop from scoring pass him for the third consecutive time, Illya got rightfully reprimanded by Waverly: 

“What’s up with you, Kuryakin?! Take a break, you’re out of it.” 

He obeyed, going to the side-line. Gaby went to him there. 

“Illya, what the fuck?” 

Such an unlucky day. 

“What?” 

Trying to play dumb with Gaby would not work, he knew that for certain. He had no other option, though. 

“You look half-dead.” 

“Then it means I am still half-alive too. Why focus on the negative?” Humour would not work either. But he was already screwed, so it could not hurt much. 

“I am worried about you, shithead, so you’d better tell me what’s wrong before I pry it out of you.” 

That was no idle threat. 

“I could not sleep last night. It is nothing. You can stop worrying, I will be fine.”

Gaby did not look convinced, but before she could say another word, Napoleon joined them. Instead of helping Illya, though, it only made him more miserable. He even flinched when Napoleon called his name. He was behaving like a teenager and it had to stop. 

Upon noticing his reaction, Gaby frowned and gave Illya a knowing look which undoubtedly meant bad news. Either she had some crazy theory as to why he was behaving strangely (although the truth was crazy enough as it was) or she had really found the truth out. Neither of these options seemed to hold an enjoyable outcome for Illya.

“I just wanted to let you know I’ll be driving on the way back. No way I’m letting you drive in that state.”

Surely, they had to be exaggerating, it could not be that bad. 

“I am fine.” He assured again. He sounded pretty convincing, in his opinion. But his appearance was apparently contradicting his declaration, if the look Napoleon sent his way was any indication. 

“I’m still driving.” 

Illya rolled his eyes. “Fine, have your way.”

He went back to training, even though the coach had not said anything about it. He just wanted to escape. 

*  
“So… you came here together.” Gaby remarked. 

“Um… Yes?” Napoleon answered, even though it hadn’t been a question. 

“That’s interesting.” 

He arched an eyebrow. “Hardly…” 

“Don’t play dumb with me, Solo.” 

He said nothing for a while. Was she bluffing? Damn, he had no idea. She was too hard to read, and too perceptive for her own good (okay, rather for Napoleon’s good). 

“We just thought it would be good for planet Earth, you know. Plus, Illya’s got an electric car.” He said, even though he knew perfectly well she was aware of the kind of car Illya was driving. He was rambling. Him, Napoleon Solo, rambling! What a disgrace!

“Right… it’s the only reason.” She said sarcastically. “Anyway, I am glad you two are finally friends. Took you long enough.” 

“I don’t know if we’re friends really… but we’re getting there.” They couldn’t get there fast enough, for Napoleon, but he wasn’t going to tell Gaby that, especially not when she was fishing for information. 

She smiled at him enigmatically, and that’s when Napoleon decided the time to end his break had come. Plus Waverly would reprimand him soon if he didn’t stop lazing: 

“I have to go. Talk to you later!”

“Sure.” 

He then proceeded to avoid her for the rest of the afternoon, all the while hoping she wouldn’t notice. It would certainly give her the wrong idea. 

After they were done with training, while they were in the showers, Napoleon kept an eye on Illya. Since he had found out about his feelings, he tried not to look anywhere near him in the changing rooms, for his own sake, even though he had already seen him naked many times before. He had always found him attractive, he was not going to lie, but now that feelings had been thrown in the mix, sneaking a peek at Illya’s naked body and enjoying the view was off the table. He was making an exception though, afraid that Illya would actually fall from exhaustion, right there on the tiled floor of the showers. He was watching out of concern and not out of lust, which made it acceptable in his book. 

Napoleon had to wait for Illya to finish dressing, as he was being far slower than usual, but apart from that nothing particular happened, which was quite miraculous at this point. 

Illya’s eyes were bloodshot, had huge bags under them, and were out of focus. He was probably relying on muscle memory only to function at the moment. He handed his car keys to Napoleon without protesting or even waiting for him to ask, which had to mean something in regard to how tired he was.

Despite the shortness of the drive, Illya was fast asleep when the car reached its destination. 

Napoleon really didn’t feel like waking him up. He had looked so tired, and he looked so peaceful now… He couldn’t possibly leave him in the car though, this would mean a bad case of sore muscles when he’d wake up. 

Napoleon shook his shoulder as gently as he could and called his name. At first, Illya didn’t steer, so Napoleon had to try again, shaking him a bit harder. 

“Illya, we’re home. It’s time to wake up.” 

He opened his eyes slowly and blinked them a few times, making it look like he was batting his eyelashes… and wasn’t that a beautiful sight? 

“What…?” 

He was disoriented and then, a few seconds later, even though Napoleon hadn’t answered his question, he seemed to get his bearings and sat up straighter. 

“Sorry… thank you for driving.” 

“No problem. Here are your keys. Go get a good night sleep.” 

It was still early, but Illya could use at least twelve hours of consecutive sleep, if you asked Napoleon. 

“Thank you, I will.” 

Napoleon went home, promising himself he would check on Illya the following day. He was persuaded this promise wouldn’t be hard to keep at all. 

It wasn’t. The next morning, he called Illya at around ten, to know if he wanted to have lunch at his place. It had been so nice the other night, when they had dinner together, that Napoleon really didn’t want it to be a one-off.

When Illya accepted his offer, he was delighted and decided to cook beef stroganoff. He had discovered that it was Illya’s favourite food when he had made him some during his “apologising through homemade food” phase (a phase which still wasn’t over, come to think of it). He also made crème brûlée, because he had gotten the impression that Illya had a secret sweet tooth. Once, after a match, he had noticed him eating candies sneakily in the team bus while Waverly wasn’t looking. Napoleon knew it went against their imposed diet, and Illya would maybe tell him so (if only to keep up appearances), but to hell with it. He would surely be able to persuade him, for who could refuse crème brûlée? 

Illya arrived at the exact time Napoleon had given him, punctual as always. He looked slightly better than he had the day before. 

“I take it you slept well?” 

“Like a baby.” He answered. “I brought wine.” 

Napoleon took the extended bottle from Illya’s hand. It was the same wine they had drunk the other night. How thoughtful of him to have remembered it. 

“Thanks, you didn’t have to.”

He dug his corkscrew out of its drawer and opened the bottle before taking wine glasses out of the cupboard. 

“Well… you keep cooking for me, and I am not a good cook. At all. So, I had to find something else to repay you.” 

Napoleon poured the wine and handed one of the glasses to Illya, their hands touching briefly in the process.  
“Nonsense, you don’t have to repay me. I love cooking, but doing it for myself only is not as enjoyable… Also, this was kind of an apology for my behaviour… I was a dick to you… pretty much for the whole time we’ve known each other, and I’m really sorry.” 

Illya bit his lower lip (this was becoming a habit, it seemed) and looked down at his wine glass. 

“About that… why did you suddenly stop? Being a dick, I mean.” 

Napoleon took a deep breath. He had not expected the conversation to turn serious so soon after Illya’s arrival. 

“I… well… that day I said something about your watch… it will probably seem weird to you but… there was something different in your reaction. You had gotten annoyed and angry at me a lot of times before… but that time you kinda looked upset, and then you left without saying anything. That made me feel real shitty, that’s why I came by to apologise later, when I had never done that before.” 

Looking back on it, he should have felt shitty on many occasions, for trying to rile-up Illya every time they had to interact with each other, but the watch had been a turning point. At least he had come around, in the end. Better late than never. 

“Oh… the thing is… my dad died when I was a child, and I got the watch from him, so it is important to me.” Illya explained, looking at the said watch while he spoke. 

That piece of information made Napoleon feel even shittier. Not that he didn’t deserve it. 

“God Illya, I am so sorry.” 

“It is okay, you did not know. What you said was not even that mean, you had said worse things before…” 

Napoleon flinched. 

“That sounded more accusing than I meant it to…”

“You’re right though. I did say worse things. I was awful.” 

Illya put a hand on his shoulder, which nearly made him jump out of his skin from surprise. He had not realised they had been standing so close to each other.

“It is behind us, now. It does not matter”, Illya said calmly. 

It did matter, though, and Napoleon would keep trying to make it up to him. Illya deserved nice things, and he had given him the opposite for years. He was slowly trying to change that. 

During lunch, he asked more personal questions than he used to, and Illya returned most of them, which Napoleon counted as a success. Their first conversation had cleared things up and had lifted a barrier between them, allowing them to speak more freely. 

Napoleon had to make an extra effort to focus, though. He was a bit distracted by the sunlight which, coming from the multiple windows of his dining room, lightened the colour of Illya’s hair and highlighted the blue of his eyes. The blinding smile Illya offered Napoleon upon hearing he had made dessert did not help him concentrate either. It lit up his whole face and made him even more beautiful, which was frankly unfair. Napoleon was torn between being relieved Illya hadn’t smiled much around him so far and wanting to make him smile everyday so he could admire it. 

In the end, he had no choice in the matter: in the following weeks, Illya and he got closer and started seeing more and more of each other (which was saying something since they had already been teammates and neighbours). Illya started smiling at him more often, and he even laughed on a few occasions, each of which was considered a victory by Napoleon. How foolish of him… he barely even noticed how his crush morphed into love until it was too late, until he was irremediably in love and utterly fucked. 

*  
Illya was freaking out, badly. Right when he had started getting used to the regular wet dreams he had about Napoleon, they changed into something unexpected (and unwanted, at that). He had started dreaming about doing lovey-dovey couple nonsense with him… like holding hands, cuddling on the couch while watching TV, playing footsie under the table and… really… he disliked cursing but, what the fuck was up with that? 

It could not happen. He could not develop feelings for Napoleon. First of all, there was very little chance he felt the same way. Secondly, teammates were not an option when it came to relationships, they had never been. It could only cause trouble. Illya had known he was bisexual since he was a teenager, but he had never even tried anything with a man, let alone a teammate. 

He could not risk being outed before the end of his career, else he would have to deal with a lot of unwanted attention. He was far from being one of the most solicited footballer, whether by fans or by the press, and he liked it that way. People talking about his sexual preferences was the last thing he needed, and there was no way they would not if it ever came to light. There were out football players, but they were either women, retired, or playing in the MLS. There was no out man in any major European league. It was a shame, for sure, but Illya was absolutely not ready to volunteer to remedy that. He liked his peace far too much. 

He could never risk letting Napoleon know about his feelings, which was precisely why they were extremely inconvenient and could only lead to heartache. 

Sadly, knowing the facts did not prevent Illya from constantly daydreaming about Napoleon, watching him when he was not looking and hanging on his every word like an impressionable teenager. It made him feel pathetic, but not enough to make him stop, unfortunately. 

And, as if he was not distressed enough, Gaby had to bring it up during one of his appointments with her. 

“So, are you gonna do something about it?” 

“About what?” he asked, truly not following. 

“About your crush on Solo?” 

At that point he wished to go back to not following, but it was too late for that. 

“I… what… I do not have a crush… on Solo of all people. This is ludicrous.”

She did not look impressed. 

“Bullshit. You cannot lie to me, Illya, I can always tell when you do. Also, this crush of yours is the most obvious thing, I swear, you’re lucky I’m the only observant person in this team of oblivious dumbasses.” 

He would not get out of this one, would he? 

He sighed. 

“Do you admit defeat?” 

He nodded, not trusting his voice at the moment. He was embarrassed to show it, but he was getting emotional. Gaby was the first person he had come out to. Well, he hadn’t exactly come out explicitly, but he had admitted to being attracted to a man, which was more or less the same thing. 

She must have seen he was about to start crying on her, because she suddenly softened and put her hands on his shoulders. It was not helping him to keep the tears at bay. 

“Oh, Illya, I’m sorry I pestered you about it.”

“It’s just… no one knew I was bi before. It feels nice to share, after all this time.” And here came the explicit coming out. 

A stubborn tear rolled down his cheek. He could not even tell why he was crying. It had to be from relief. 

Gaby caressed his cheek. 

“I’m so glad you told me, sweetheart. Even if I did slightly push you to. Sorry again.” 

She hugged him then, and Illya hugged her back tightly. 

“So, you still haven’t answered my question, are you gonna do something about the crush or not?” 

“Why do you have to ruin the moment?” He let out a shaky laugh. 

“Sorry, sorry, I can’t help myself.” 

“I am going to answer you, because I am feeling generous. And also because you will not stop asking, otherwise. I will not do anything about it. Napoleon and I are teammates, and friends, and that is all we are ever going to be.” 

“But…”

“There is no but. I do not want to make a mess of things.” 

Gaby looked like she wanted to argue further, but she kept blessedly silent on the matter and started talking to him about the upcoming match against Inter Milan instead. 

*  
The match against Inter Milan was an away game, which meant they had to stay at a hotel the night before. 

There were two players per room, as it almost always went, and Illya and Napoleon ended up rooming together. Napoleon got their key from Gaby, for some reason, and then they directly went up to their room to settle. 

As soon as Napoleon opened the door to their room, he became suspicious. There was only one bed, which was unusual. It had happened to Napoleon before, but only while he was still playing for small teams and staying in seedy motels. 

“Why aren’t you going in?” Illya asked from behind him, probably unable to see inside the room. 

“There is a small problem, I’ll go ask the hotel staff if it can be arranged”, Napoleon answered, putting his suitcase on the floor and moving away from the door. 

“Oh…” Illya had finally noticed there was only one bed. “Alright… do you want me to go with you?” 

“You don’t have to, I’ll be right here, you can just wait here.” 

Napoleon didn’t wait for an answer and went to the elevator. He had not wanted Illya to accompany him because he had to talk to Gaby, and he preferred to do it in private. 

He had wondered why she had been the one to hand him their room key even though she was not the one responsible for assigning rooms. He understood now, and he was not happy. 

He found her in the lobby, chatting with Waverly and the team doctor. 

“Gaby, can I have a word, please?” He asked politely, even though he was internally fuming. 

“Sure!” She said, smiling brightly, excusing herself from the conversation she was a part of. 

She looked so innocent she almost had him fooled, but Napoleon wasn’t stupid. 

“What the fuck are you up to, Gabriela?” He asked as soon as they were out of earshot. 

“What do you mean?” 

Napoleon’s eyes narrowed. If looks could kill, Gaby would be dead by now. 

“Why is there only one bed in the room Illya and I are sharing?” 

“Oh, I’m sorry. We kinda messed up the reservations. We were short of one room, and the hotel had no more double room with single beds available by the time we noticed.”

Napoleon crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Right… And, out of all the pairs of players, Illya and I ended up with the only room with just one bed… by accident?”

He wasn’t buying it. 

“Sure! Stop being suspicious all the time!” 

He still wasn’t buying it, and he was mad at her. She had asked him about his feelings for Illya a few days prior. He had admitted to it reluctantly, but had asked her to stay out of it, which she had agreed to. 

He couldn’t outright confront Gaby any more than he had, because he was sure she would triumph in the end. Arguing with her would be a loss of time, and he didn’t have the energy. Therefore, he got back to the room, where Illya was waiting for him to come back with good news, which obviously wouldn’t happen. 

“I’m sorry, they’re out of rooms.” 

“It is fine. The bed is big enough for the both of us.”

Illya was right, it was big enough. It would be a tight fit, but they could make it work… the size of the bed was not Napoleon’s main source of worry. He was more worried about the sharing part itself, and the fact he would certainly like it a bit too much. The size was part of his apprehension too, though. The bed was not a king size and Illya and Napoleon probably wouldn’t be able to lie in it side by side without their bodies coming into contact with one another. 

Once they were in bed, Napoleon’s fears were confirmed. This night would be torture. Their shoulders were touching, and there was no way to prevent it: if Napoleon moved any further from the centre of the bed, he’d probably fall to the ground. So, he had to cope with Illya’s naked skin against his own and the heat radiating off it (as if Napoleon was not feeling hot enough from the situation alone). 

At some point, Napoleon got so frustrated he couldn’t stand it. He had to get up and just… do something. He took his emergency cigarettes from his suitcase and exited the room. He knew he shouldn’t smoke. It was a double health hazard, because of the damage it did to the body, and because Waverly would probably kill Napoleon if he caught him with a cigarette in his hand. Still, he was feeling anxious and he didn’t know what else to do. 

It was cold outside, especially compared to how warm it had been in the hotel. Napoleon hadn’t bothered putting a sweater on before going out, and he would probably catch his death, but the cold air on his heated cheeks felt so brilliant that he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

In the end, he didn’t get caught smoking by Waverly, but he did get caught anyway. And it happened even before he could take a single pull on his cigarette. The Universe was against him. Oh, and Illya had been the one interrupting his illicit activity, which only strengthened the hypothesis that Napoleon was cursed. 

“What the hell, Illya?” He asked, when his teammate unceremoniously took the cigarette from his hand and threw it away in the nearest trashcan. It was rude. Also, he had not seen him coming in the dark and had nearly jumped out of his skin. God did Illya move stealthily for someone so tall. 

“Smoking is bad.” 

“Thanks a bunch for the breaking news.” 

“It looked like you needed reminding.” Illya said with a half-smile. 

Napoleon sighed, knowing a lost battle when he saw it. 

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” 

“No, I was not asleep yet when you left the room.” 

“So the sleeping problems are back? Or is it that they never left? Are you an insomniac?” 

Illya made a kind of strangled sound and gave a non-committal response: “Something like that.” 

“You’re not stressed about the match, are you?” 

“Not really, no. What about you? Is that why you’re not sleeping.” 

Damn, Napoleon had just played himself by being this nosy, hadn’t he? He should have known Illya would start asking questions too. 

“Mmh, no. It probably won’t be a hard game. I just felt too hot in the room.” 

At least, he wasn’t really lying. 

“Maybe we should check the heaters and see if we can lower the temperature.” Illya said helpfully. 

“Yes, let’s do that and try to get some sleep.” 

They went back up to their room. Or, more accurately, they tried to. The elevator suddenly came to a stop between the third and fourth floors. 

“Fuck. Are you kidding me?” Napoleon cursed, not really knowing whom he was addressing. Probably whoever was responsible for the crappy night he was having so far. God, the Universe, Cupid, Gaby, you name it. 

He immediately called the helpdesk to let them know they were stuck. The lady who answered told him they would do their best to take care of the problem as quickly as possible. He had no idea what “as quickly as possible” was, and she probably didn’t know it any more than he did for now. They could do nothing but wait. Fan-fucking-tastic. 

“Can you believe it? What next, a power shortage?” 

Illya didn’t answer, so Napoleon turned toward him to find out why. 

“Illya, are you okay?” 

He didn’t look like he was. He had sat down on the floor, his legs bent close to his chest. His face was hidden in his arms, which he had crossed over his knees.

“Illya?” 

He raised his head and opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out apart from the rasping sound of his laboured breathing. Napoleon’s concern skyrocketed. 

“Are you claustrophobic?” 

Illya simply nodded. 

Shit. It was a grade A crisis right there. 

“Okay… okay. Don’t worry, it’s gonna be fine. The repairers will sort out the elevator in no time.” Napoleon told him, trying to reassure himself too in the process. It seemed to work neither for Illya nor for himself. 

“Can I touch you?” Napoleon had no other idea how to offer comfort at the moment. 

Illya nodded again. Thank God. 

“Give me your hand.” 

He did as he was told, and Napoleon held his hand tightly for a few seconds. It felt clammy to the touch and perspiration made Illya’s face shine slightly under the bright neon lights of the elevator. 

Napoleon released his grip slightly and put Illya’s hand on his own chest. 

“Breathe with me. It will be alright. You can do it, I’m sure you can.” 

He had no idea what he was doing, but at least Illya was trying and it gave him something to think of other than being in a tight closed space without a way out.

Illya was now resting his head against the wall, eyes closed. Napoleon was kneeling in between Illya’s spread knees, still holding his hand to his chest.

He had seen Illya in better shape, but he had the impression he was doing slightly better. Was he imagining it? He hoped not. 

“You’ve got this, Illya, keep taking deep breaths. It’s okay.” Napoleon encouraged him, making his voice as soft, calm and assured as he could. 

“Keep talking, please.” Illya asked. 

This had to be a good sign… he had not been able to talk, a few minutes ago. 

“Sure… I can do that. I never shut up anyway, you must have noticed that. But we should get more comfortable, can I let go of your hand?” 

A nod. Good. 

Napoleon let go, but not for long. He sat against the wall next to Illya and instructed him to lie down and put his head on his lap. Illya looked hesitant at first, but Napoleon assured him it would be fine. 

“Okay, now close your eyes again. I’m gonna talk to you about one of my favourite places in the world, and I want you to picture it, can you do that for me?” 

Illya made an affirmative sound. 

“Great. So, when I was a child, there was a football pitch not too far from my house, and by football I mean soccer and not American football. You had probably got that, but you know I grew up in the States, so I thought I’d clear that up anyway. Let’s go back to our sheep… I used to go to that pitch every weekend, getting there with my bike, most often on my own, because all my friends were basketball or American football fans and didn’t give a damn about soccer. This pitch was nothing compared to the pitches of the stadiums we play in nowadays of course. There was no bleachers around it, no barriers even. The goal frames had no net. Honest to God, it looked like a field more than a pitch. It was basically a field with white lines painted on it and two rusted goal frames. There weren’t many buildings around it, just a few houses, a few hundred yards away, so you could see really far around the pitch. And there was no shadow, so you could feel the sun from sunrise to sunset. Sometimes, there was a slight breeze too. Not often of course, it was California, after all. But that made it feel extra nice when it decided to show up. I’d stay there for hours at a time, practising shots, dribbling, juggling and what not. Good old time, you know.” Napoleon rambled on, while caressing Illya’s hair slowly. He hoped describing an outdoor location would keep Illya from feeling trapped. 

*

Illya listened to Napoleon’s soothing voice, trying to imagine what it was describing. The hand in his hair was also very relaxing. If he had been in his normal state, nothing about it would have relaxed him, and he would have been overthinking it, wondering why Napoleon was being so tender with him. However, since the current circumstances were anything but normal, Illya was not focused on this side of things. 

While Napoleon was speaking, Illya felt his chest tighten again a few times, as if his lungs were expanding, trying but failing to get air in them. But he managed to block the feeling out, distracted by Napoleon’s touch and the story he was telling. He had considerably calmed down, but the out of order elevator was still there at the back of his mind, as well as the need to get out of it very soon. He was exhausted. 

He had been in a trance-like state for a few minutes, lulled by the repetitive motion of Napoleon’s hand and his even tone, when he heard a metallic noise. He nearly started panicking again, opening his eyes wide, suddenly more awake than ever, but he thankfully did not get much time to fear the worse. The elevator started working again and Napoleon and he were finally free a few seconds later. 

“Thank you, for helping me out.” 

“You’ve got nothing to thank me for.” 

“Of course, I do.” Illya could be stubborn, too. 

After thanking the repairer, Napoleon and Illya finally got back to their room. After how stressed out he had been to share a bed with Napoleon at the beginning of the night, Illya could not have imagined he would be so happy to be back inside that damned room. 

He drank about half a water bottle and then took a quick shower to get rid of the grimy feeling of sweat. When Illya exited the bathroom, Napoleon was sitting on their bed, staring into space. 

He did not say anything while Illya was getting ready to go back to bed, slipping on boxer shorts and drying his hair with a towel. His prolonged silence was uncanny. 

“Are you okay?” Illya finally asked.

Napoleon exhaled shakily. 

“Yeah… it’s just… you scared the fuck out of me.” He admitted. 

“I am sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault.” 

It was not, indeed. Illya had a problem with closed spaces since he had stayed stuck in one of the supply closets of his primary school for three hours before his teacher had found him. He always avoided elevators when he was alone (he had taken the stairs when he had joined Napoleon outside). He just went through elevator rides when he had company, because he didn’t feel like explaining he was claustrophobic. Also, he was fine as long as the elevator was moving, he was only terrified of staying stuck in it for an indeterminate amount of time, which was precisely what had happened that night. He would probably avoid elevators altogether from now on, no matter what the situation was. 

“You were great. I could not even tell you were frightened.” 

Granted, his observation skills probably had not been at their sharpest when he had been suffocating, but Illya had still found Napoleon’s attitude very reassuring. He would not have if he had caught up on Napoleon’s own panic. 

“I’m glad you thought so, ‘cause I was totally improvising.” Napoleon laughed, but there was no humour in it. 

Illya could see he was still bothered. 

“Come here”, he said, gesturing for him to come closer. 

Napoleon obliged almost immediately and Illya embraced him, feeling him sigh against his collarbone. 

“Can I turn off the light now?” 

“Yes.” 

Illya extended one of his arms to reach the interrupter on Napoleon’s side of the bed, and then put it back around him. He inhaled, instantly recognising the smell of cedar from Napoleon’s expensive shampoo. Their legs were tangled, and they were basically squished against each other, Illya’s arms around Napoleon’s shoulders and Napoleon’s arms circling Illya’s waist. None of them were wearing shirts. There was so much naked skin Illya was going crazy.

He had previously thought his feelings for Napoleon were one-sided, but he was reconsidering. Football players were generally tactile people, but not to the point of cuddling. 

He wanted to kiss him, so bad. He knew he should not do it, but he did not know how much longer he could resist the impulse. 

*  
Napoleon was debating on whether or not to fucking do something. He was trying to keep in mind the mess that had been his first and only relationship with another player, but the more time passed, the less he cared. Illya hugging him like this was not helping him stay reasonable either. 

In fact, the aforementioned relationship had only ended in disaster because Alexander Vinguerra, the slimy rat that he was, had found out about it and threatened Napoleon to talk about it to the press. Thankfully, Napoleon had had some intel he could blackmail him back with. He had known Alexander had been cheating on his wife for a while, and she would surely have had his balls if she had found out. Napoleon would have felt sorry for her if she was not as awful as her husband was. 

At that moment, Alexander Vinciguerra was far away from them, thank God, and Napoleon and he didn’t even play for the same team anymore. All Napoleon had to do was be more careful this time around. He couldn’t be a hundred percent sure that Illya would reciprocate, but considering their current position, he could make a wild guess. And, if Illya ended up rejecting him, Napoleon was positive he wouldn’t tell anyone about it. He trusted him. All he was risking was a bruised ego… and possibly heartbreak, if he was being honest. But his heart was already kind of broken anyway, so he’d better try to put it back together. 

He raised his head from Illya’s chest and untangled himself slightly so he could put his hand on Illya’s jaw, caressing his lower lip with his thumb so he would get the message. And get it he did: he put his hand over Napoleon’s and moved it away slightly before leaning in and joining their lips. He was tentative at first, testing the waters, but then he deepened the kiss and Napoleon’s brain went blissfully blank for a few seconds. Unfortunately, it didn’t stay that way. Napoleon’s big mouth had to ruin it by talking instead of going on with the glorious kissing that had been awaited for so long. 

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” 

He had to be a decent human being and ask about it, even though he really hadn’t felt like talking. Illya had had a claustrophobia-induced panic attack less than an hour ago, after all. Maybe he still wasn’t in his right mind. 

“I have never been so sure of anything before. I have been waiting this for months.” 

Napoleon might have whimpered at Illya’s answer. He would have been embarrassed, but Illya’s lips were back on his and, this time, that was all he could think about. There, under the cover of darkness, time seemed to have stopped. Still, the sun would rise in a few hours, bringing responsibilities, interrogations and discussions along with a new day. 

But, for now, they could pretend that nothing existed outside of this room, that they wouldn’t have to get up to join the rest of the team in the morning despite having gotten very little sleep, that they wouldn’t have to talk things out, and that Gaby would let them live it down once she found out they had finally kissed (which she undoubtedly would). This night was theirs, and theirs only.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks a lot for reading this self-indulgent fanfiction. I really hope you enjoyed it :) I'd be really happy to hear (or more accurately read ^^) your thoughts. I'll maybe write a second part if some of you are interested in reading it. 
> 
> Little facts that probably no one will give a fuck about ^^:  
> *I don't really know why I chose Manchester City and Manchester United for the beginning of this fic. I don't particularly care for any of these teams (I can even say I dislike Manchester United, because I am quite fond of Liverpool, which is another one of United's bitter rivals, yes they have a lot ah ah; also Manchester City has been annoying me lately, because it has been winning too often).  
> *I chose A.S. Roma as Illya and Napoleon's new team because the movie takes place in Rome. In fact, I'm not much into Italian football, simply because after watching English, French, Spanish and German football, there is no time, energy and tears left for any other league xD. 
> 
> Also, English is not my first language (which is probably noticeable ^^), so feel free to point out any mistake or to tell me if something sounds weird. I kinda went with the flow when talking about the Italian club names because in France we put a definite article in front of them, but I think that's not the same in English. Other than that, I recently learnt that the past participle of "get" was "got" and not "gotten", but I still left "gotten" when I was writing from Napoleon's point of view because I think that's what American people use. Also, I think "got" sounds weird as hell ^^. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at https://runningtothesea.tumblr.com/ feel free to come talk to me ;)
> 
> That's it, I'll stop rambling. Hugs and kisses folks ;)


End file.
